


The Littlest U.N.C.L.E Agent Part 2 How Illya Kuryakin Comes of Age

by 26foxbuck221



Series: The Littlest U.N.C.L.E. Agent [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6192025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/26foxbuck221/pseuds/26foxbuck221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya comes of age after being age regressed by Thrush. But it does not happen over night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Littlest U.N.C.L.E Agent Part 2 How Illya Kuryakin Comes of Age

The Littlest U.N.C.L.E. Agent

Part 2 

How Illya Kuryakin Comes of Age

Chapter lV

I had expected this to be the last chapter of "The Littlest U.N.C.L.E. Agent" but, as is apparent, it keeps on rolling.

As always, the disclaimer, I owe nothing, am not making one red cent. These characters, and U.N.C.L.E. are just being borrowed for entertainment purposes only.

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Napoleon awoke to a something….or a someone….scrabbling at the side of his bed. He sleepily fumbled about in the dark and touched something soft and silky. 

“Illya? What are you doing out of bed? What time is it?”

“Mama say I must not cry. They will hear.” Then the little face buried it's self into the bedding. The little fists clutched hard during a muffled groan of pain.

Napoleon rolled over to curl around the boy. “What is it, tovarishch. Where do you hurt.”

“Napoleon? Illya isn't…...oh….I thought maybe he might be here.”

“Marion, I need you to talk to Illya. He's having acute pain. I need to call Medical and get someone up here.”

Solo rolled out of bed while Marion knelt down and began to murmur into Illya's ear. The first response was a shake of the golden head in the negative, then the little shoulders heaved in a huge sigh and he began to answer Marion's questions. Solo moved to the phone and dialed a number. Within minutes Dr Johnson and a special nurse was knocking at the door. Solo let them in and silently led them into the bedroom to find them confronting a very irate and obstinate little Russian. 

“Nyet! Ne-TROH-guy!” Then the little arms crossed the chest. “Not touch!”

Solo could see the bottom lip and chin defiant while the pale cheeks and laser blue eyes glistened with tears. 

The masseuse reached out and gently stroked his hair. “It's alright sweetheart, I know it hurts. I can help it stop but you have to let me touch you.”

Marion murmured the translation as the boy hiccuped before throwing his arms around her neck and burying his head in the her shoulder. In the last three weeks, his English had come a long way, but in times of stress or frustration, he would retreat into the comfort of his Mother Tongue. 

“You poor baby, these muscles are so tense they are actually putting stress on the joints.”

Napoleon's eyes searched and found Dr. Johnson's own. “Growth spurt, Dr.?”

“It is possible, of course. But I suppose only time will tell.”

After an emotional twenty minutes of muffled groans and soft sobbing, the little body began to relax as the spasms began to loosen. Deft, gentle fingers found pressure points, applying firm but gentle touch until the muscles relaxed and the spasms loosened, the cycle of pain eradicated. 

“You've been so brave little one, just a few minutes more and we'll be done. Then you'll be able to get some rest. I promise.”

The blond head nodded with a deep sigh. 

“Before you lay him down get him to drink plenty of water.”

Solo got up and headed for the kitchen for a tall glass of water. On depositing it on the bed side table, he fetched a warm damp washcloth and warmed a fluffy towel before heading back to rejoin Illya's support group. Gently he nudged the boy and showed him the damp cloth and was rewarded by the little face offering itself to the administration and the little arms reaching out.

“Ready for bed, tovarishch?”

“Da.” The blue eyes already half lidded and unfocused. 

Getting a nod of approval from both Dr. Johnson and the masseuse, Napoleon hefted him up and moved to sit down on the bed picking up the glass of liquid. 

“Drink up. Doctor's orders, then you can sleep for as long as you like.”

Illya glowered at the tumbler, made a wry face but took it and sipped it down, pushing the glass towards Napoleon once he was done. 

“Yes. Okay. I get the message. You're not happy so lets get on with it, right?”  
Illya let his body go limp and rolled out off Napoleon and tucked into the pillow.

“Smart alecky Russian.” Solo groused as he slid an arm around the boy's waist and lifted, the boy jackknifing bonelessly over the arm as the man turned down the covers dropping the limp form between the sheets. Nor did he stir as Napoleon undressed and tucked the blankets around the boy's shoulder's. Solo paused at the sound of soft even breathing.

“He's already asleep, isn't he.”

“Yes, he is.” Dr. Johnson shooed everyone out of the bedroom and gently closed the door, leaving it just slightly ajar. 

“I'll prescribe some muscle relaxants and mild pain killers. But as long as Ms. Rama's therapy works then we will go lightly on those. Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon moved purposefully towards the door. 

“I'll be right back, don't you worry. Call it a Solo hunch, but if this is a part of him trying to return to normal he is going to need more choices in sizes of clothing then what is in there now.”

IOIOIOIOIO

He blinked himself wake rolling over with a muffled “uummpphh”. Every muscle and joint ached dully, like he had been pummeled within an inch of his life. Flinging the bedding aside he rolled slowly to sit on the side of the bed and stretched, feeling as well as hearing the pop of knotted muscles. What he needed was a hot shower and a good work out in the gym. He stood and stretched again, casting his memory back to the night before. Why was he so lame? He had gone out with Tovarishch Kronaovitch, a celebration of sorts and to talk about his up coming exams for military service. What branch he should concentrate on. But after that…..nothing. 

Then the strange dream of being in a German cell. The pain might explain that but why would an Amerikanskii show up? He scrubbed his fingers through his hair. Everyone in his dream had spoken English….this made no sense. He sighed and padded towards the bathroom. A shower, breakfast, then a workout. Then he would have to hunt up Tovarishch Kronaovitch. There was an explanation he just had to be patient. 

He started to reach for the shower controls then stopped. Then slowly one finger traced the embossed lettering. Hot...Not? Then the blue eyes narrowed and he stepped out of the tub and crept back to the bedroom, holding his breath, listening intently. Setting on the edge of the bed. He had to gather his thoughts. He must calm himself and think clearly. How much of the dream had been real. Why was everything in English? Even the instructions on the shower controls. Was he being tested? 

He slid the drawer of the bed side table open, hoping to find his weapon. Instead he found the bright yellow triangle. An elderly looking man flashed into his memory. A man who spoke Russian fluently and had told the child Kuryakin that the badge was his. A man who had his mother's hand painted Firebird brooch. 

He rifled through the closet and drawers, quickly dressing then he slipping into socks and holding shoes in hand he slowly opened the bedroom door. It opened into a living room which was empty, at the moment. Taking a slow deep breath, he held it again and listened. There were voices coming from another room, female….and again they were speaking English. And stranger yet, he was actually able to understand some of what was being said. 

There was a door in the opposite wall. It was closer to the kitchen then was comfortable but it could be done with stealth. He squared his shoulders and set his focus. The best camouflage was confidence. Act like you belonged and knew exactly what you were doing and where you were going. And, if he concentrated, with his eidetic memory, he should be able to retrace the route back to the room he remembered he was taken to before being brought to this apartment. 

He walked at a normal gait to the door and carefully opened it a mere crack. As he suspected it opened into a corridor. He eased it open just enough to allow him to slip through, then carefully closed it behind him. He looked to the left. If memory served him, that is were the elevator should be and yes, there was a recess with a sliding door. He quickened his pace as he headed for it knowing that his absence could be discovered at any time. A soft hum made him made him step into the corner formed by the lift shaft and corridor wall and tuck into a ball. He pulled the black turtle neck sweater up over his fair hair. As long as he could stay out of peripheral sight, he should be able to avoid detection. 

He heard the whish of pneumatic doors opening and footsteps moving past him and down the corridor. Keeping low Illya scooted into the small steel cubical and studied the controls, reaching up to push the button with a green arrow pointing down. As the doors began to slide close, he heard a door open and a woman's voice, edged with panic, calling out a name. Illya heard his own name called but by a man's voice. But the young Russian had committed himself to a definite course of action and he would not be deterred.  
IOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIOIO

This story keeps on growing so I decided to make it a two part serial. Comments and suggestions more then welcome. Unbated, all mistakes are my own.


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